


Best in the Business

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been months since Stiles left Beacon Hills and, after working on learning to harness his Spark, Stiles decides he needs a little more practical training, training from Hunters. John Winchester is the best in the business they say and to find him all Stiles has to do is find Bobby Singer. Piece of cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best in the Business

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Лучший в этом деле](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736404) by [hisaribi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisaribi/pseuds/hisaribi)



> First part in an ongoing series of a Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover.

**Best in the Business**

After he’d left Beacon Hills Stiles had wandered for a bit. Two weeks spent crisscrossing across the country. California down to Arizona then through New Mexico across Texas into Oklahoma. From there he’d wound his way northward through Missouri, Illinois, across the top of Indiana, before cutting through Ohio and Pennsylvania to travel up to New York, then New Hampshire and Vermont, and finally Maine.

He’d stayed in Maine for a short while. Drifting namelessly through towns, a ghost haunting the shadows. Then he’d gotten down to business. Launched into learning to control his Spark. Deaton had given him a contact; Sinéad Dornoll, descendent of a Scotland druidess who had, if the tales were to be believed, trained some of the greatest War Mages of ancient times. She was more than happy to help him.

So he left Maine for Massachusetts. Boston to be specific.

He’d stayed with Sinéad for three months. Three months studying the dusty books and learning Latin, Gaelic, and Ogham. Three months practicing elegant and complicated hand movements, studying plants and animals. Three months spent meditating to fan that tiny Spark inside of him until it was a steadily burning and tangible presence. Three months spent learning to listen and understand the flux of the Spark, to control its outbursts, to stifle them down or call them up. Three months being educated on the Druid’s Code of Ethics, learning the laws and bylaws. Three months fending off offers of a formal position. There were always packs looking for Emissaries apparently, but Stiles wasn’t interested in any pack beside his own.

He’d left Sinéad a great deal more settled than when he’d arrived. Not that it was much of an accomplishment considering his state of mind, but still, and improvement is an improvement. He’d left with an arsenal of new tricks to use, a greater understanding of what resided inside of him, and a standing offer to return for more instruction in the future.

With the Spark under control and him no longer spiraling into something approximating a panic attack every three hours, Stiles began Phase Two. He needed more practical training. Training from hunters. But they needed to be the right hunters. Not the Argents or anyone connected to them; too close to home. No psychotics, sanity was required. Preferably a hunter who wasn’t too involved in the hunting community, he wasn’t too interested in being involved with people who would probably want to kill him and his friends if they had the opportunity and knowledge. Ideally someone who favored the East Coast.  Preferably someone who specialized in anything but werewolves.

It took a bit of digging but eventually, through a very long grapevine, Stiles came across the name Bobby Singer. A bit more digging got him an unlisted phone number. Bobby wasn’t perfect. He was too connected and had a good deal of history with werewolves, but he was also the best resource Stiles had found thus far. So he set Bobby as a back up and dug deeper.

When he first heard the name John Winchester his Spark sang. Literally. Okay, no, it was figuratively, but Stiles wasn’t about to ignore the near tangible thrum in his chest pulling him to John Winchester.

Problem was John was a hard man to find. But that was what made him perfect. By all accounts John traveled a circuit from the East coast to the Midwest. Rarely the West coast. Stiles could work with that. Stiles couldn’t find much about the man’s hunting preference, but his Spark didn’t care. John was it. He was a ghost, but Stiles was determined.

He called Bobby on a Tuesday. The man hung up on him in a few seconds.

So, of course, he hit redial and waited. Patiently. He’d gone too subtle for the first call. Obviously.

_“Look, kid, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. Stop looking into this stuff. It ain’t good for your health.”_

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not doing this for my health, isn’t it Mr. Singer? I’m not looking to get involved in this stuff, I’m already involved and believe me when I say I understand how dangerous it is. I’m not looking for someone to save me. I’m looking for someone to teach me.”

 _“Teach you_?” Hell if the man didn’t sound disbelievingly surprised.

“Well there’s only so much I can learn on my own. And from what I hear, you're one of the best in the business. Your library is legendary.”

_“Legendary.”_

“I can make this beneficial to both of us. You help me, I help you.”

_“What makes you think I need your help for anything?”_

“I’m sure there must be something I can do. I’m very adaptable.”

_“I’m sure you are, but the answer is still no.”_

Bobby really needed to learn his manners because even Stiles knew it was rude to hang up on someone twice in a row. Redial was a lovely thing.

_“What’s it gonna take to get you to stop calling?”_

“I thought it was obvious. Agree to help me.”

_“No.”_

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. I need your help. I don’t want it, if I could I’d do it all myself I would, but I can’t. I need you and more importantly I need your knowledge and so help me God I will track you down and camp out in front of your house singing obnoxious Christmas songs until you agree to help me.”

_“I could just shoot you when you arrive.”_

“Well then you would have murdered a human kid. Congratulations. I’ll let you decide how well your conscience would deal with that.” The length of silence following that comment left him wondering if he’d been hung up on yet again.

_“How about a deal? You find me in a week, I’ll consider your proposition.”_

Stiles grinned. “See you soon, Mr. Singer.”

_“I doubt it.”_

“I don’t.”

Stiles hadn’t lied. It had only taken him a quick call to Danny, as uncomfortable as that had been, and a little bit of digging through Whitepages and public records to find Bobby Singer in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Taking the time to circle back to Boston, he left his jeep with Sinéad before catching a bus out west. It took him two days to get to Rapid City. From there it was another day hitchhiking to get to Sioux Falls. All too simple after he arrived to ask the nice lady at the diner for directions to Singer Salvage Yard. Some nice guy even offered to drop him off at the end of the driveway.

The bus ticket from Boston to Rapid City—one hundred and forty-nine dollars.

New socks to replace the ones soaked from walking in all the filthy slush and a cup of coffee from the diner in Sioux Falls—twelve dollars and thirty-six cents.

The look of surprise (and grudging respect) on the older man’s face when Stiles showed up in his junkyard—priceless.

* * *

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bobby, or who Stiles assumed must be Bobby, said stepping out onto the porch and patting a frantically barking dog on the head. “Don’t tell me you’re the kid?”

Stiles grinned, hiking his duffle higher on his shoulder. “Told you I’d see you soon.”

Bobby sighed heavily and readjusted his cap. He looked very similar to what Stiles had pictured. All rough edges, and beard, and grease with a plaid shirt and a baseball cap. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Stiles,” he said, walking up to the porch and holding out his hand. “Just Stiles.”

Bobby shook his hand firmly. “Well a deal’s a deal. Come on in. We should talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope to have more parts up soon. 
> 
> Follow on tumblr


End file.
